


Curiosity

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, dirty books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: Alayne loses herself in her father's private library.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



“Sweetling?”

The word cuts through the still air of the room and it is at that moment Alayne realizes she had been holding her breath. It escapes her in a ragged gasp, the fluttering of her hands as she attempts to arrange the book back on the shelf seemingly far too loud, the contrast of the quiet that existed before almost deafening. She does not turn to face him, knowing well enough that her face was red, that she should not be here, that a line has been crossed. Instead she stands frozen, listening to his steady footfall as he closes the distance between them.

She doesn’t turn her head but she can smell him. The sharpness of the mint on his breath cuts though the air; he must have just placed a leaf in his mouth. It cracks under her nose, drawing her attention. Underneath it was the unmistakable, unnamable scent of _him_ , something she had become more than accustomed to in these months of seclusion, something that cropped up in her senses at the most inopportune times. Sometimes she found herself longing for that, in spite of herself, and the memory of that strange shame now twisted at her already tortured insides. 

He was behind her and it was only in that moment that she was able to realize her mistake. The volume she had been looking at had been returned to the shelf upside down, the spine sticking out just a bit, taunting her. She heard something like a laugh come from his throat as a ringed hand entered her vision, caressing the leather of the spine. 

“Oh sweetling, what have you been doing?” He pulled the book back out with ease and it was then that she turned, her mouth open, prepared to defend herself. Petyr was examining the book, his face a mask of concern. He opened it, the crack of the spine ringing in her ears, to a page with lavish and lewd illustrations. Alayne cast her eyes down.

“Ah.” The noise was a simple one, something between an expression of curiosity and a mocking taunt, and she felt her cheeks burn with the shame of it all. She bit the inside of her mouth, tried to will herself to mirror him in his control but she found she could not. The book rested easily in his hands and she was fidgeting, betraying her inexperience, her inelegance in this situation. She found herself eyeing the door, admiring it as a form of escape at the same time she wanted nothing more than to have the two of them securely locked away. 

“I see I should be monitoring the texts my daughter has access to.” She wasn’t sure how the words were intended, as they came with the characteristic smirk that seemed to accompany so many of his statements, the arch cut of his lips covering up any truth. Despite his chastising words he held the book in such a way that she could not help but see the illustration, the woman arched against her partner, her cheeks a beautiful blush that seemed far too delicate for the act itself. That her expression was so like Alayne’s at the moment did not escape her notice.

“I’m sorry father.” The words came to her lips without prompt, almost as if it was a reflex. From the way his eyes changed at that moment she knew she had done something that pleased him and she fell into this role with abandon, molding her reaction to fit his own. She looked up at him through her lashes, a coy look that she knew pleased him so. 

“Oh sweetling.” The book snapped closed and he moved forward a bit, ringed fingers curling under her cheek. He drew her gaze to his own and Alayne parted her lips just slightly — she was unsure if it was by instinct, or a planned reaction. In this close space, sharing his air, there was little that she could do to calm herself. Her heart was a rapid press against her laces, her body so tightly coiled she was afraid she would stumble with only the slightest movement, her limbs unable to function. Petyr knew all this of course — he was always so wickedly skilled at the art of reading her — and abused it, as he was wont to do. 

She fed into him, as always. 

“I was curious.” Her words were nothing more than a squeak, making herself a small thing that was begging to be wrapped up in him. She wondered sometimes how Sansa Stark would feel in these moments, the girl that more and more felt to her like a stranger, someone forcefully cast aside. She was beginning to lose all attachment to those feelings, and so the exercise left a cold taste in her mouth. 

Still, she knew the other girl would be little pleased with the uncouth situation she placed herself in. Sansa would have never peeked, Sansa would have never been curious, Sansa would not be standing her, begging for something she could not give words to.

Petyr clucked his tongue and looked down at the book once more. “About your wedding, sweetling? Do you really feel you have no where else to turn?” His voice had a note of concern but it was layered with something else, something that curled under her skin, drew her breath out in a gasp. When he set the book aside she found her weight shifting to the balls of her feet, her body poised to act. 

“I saw the title. I was just…curious.” It was a weak reaction but it was the truth. The book had always drawn her attention, something that had lingered in the field of her vision when they had their meetings here. After a time she was certain Petyr noticed her interest in it and kept it in a pronounced location. At this moment she could not help but wonder how long he had been waiting for this day, how practiced his reactions would be. 

“Surely you know that my work is not always suited for maidens?” There was reproach in his voice yet still he did not move. He kept her locked between himself and the shelves. He was far from an imposing man, physically, but he always knew how to keep her grounded in her place, locked under his stare. “And that I would have texts that were not made for a young girl’s eyes.”

“I’m sorry father,” she repeated. She reached up to touch his arm, a reflex, and found herself being pressed back against the hard wooden shelf by his body, her breath now locked in her throat.

“What should I do with a daughter who misbehaves so?” She could hear mischief in his voice; he was batting her about with his words. His lips were inches from hers, a tease more than anything, and not for the first time Alayne felt herself overwhelmed with a sickening melody of emotions. She wanted to run, she wanted to fight, she wanted to fall against him and live out every shameful thought that had ever pushed its way into her brain. 

The images from the book were filling her mind and she was burning, the heat almost oppressive. She shook her head, the idea of responding with words impossible. 

Petyr was ready, Petyr moved, grabbing her by the waist and positioning her so that she was staring at the book on the table, his front against her back. He reached down with one hand to grip her own, moving them as one until the leather of the cover brushed against her palm, creating a chill that went all over the body. 

“Perhaps I would have a better idea what to do if you showed me what it was you liked about this?” His words were somehow even, a father’s words, though she could feel nothing paternal in the reaction of his body against hers. He pressed her forward and she nearly collapsed against him as they opened the spine together. 

The sound of the pages were obscured by their breathing. Alayne did not pursue the book for long, her body wanting to flee as desperately as it wanted to stay, and merely chose a page at random. What she found made Petyr laugh once more, the sound vibrating through her. 

The woman on the page was in a state of ecstasy, sheer silks covering her curves, the details of her body more than visible underneath. He partner was buried between her thighs, the curls of his head obscuring the curls at her juncture, his hands gripping his stocking-covered thighs. Alayne closed her eyes and found herself, quite against her better instincts, pressing back into him. 

“That is what my sweet girl is curious about?” The hand not gripping her own was at her waist, digging into the flesh there, pulling at her silks. She could feel them being raised, the coolness of the air a welcome sensation on her flesh. 

“Of course she would be,” he continued, pressing his lips against her neck. “Young girls are so often left in the dark on such a thing.” His fingers now were grazing her thigh and Alayne found herself staring at this muddled reflection in the mirror, wondering who the girl before her could possibly be.

Petyr brushed his fingers along her knee, caressing lines up and down her thigh. He seemed to be keeping the two of them in check—that is, the tension that was _them_ seemed to rest entirely on his shoulders and he could break it at any time. Alayne found herself staring at the illustration, at the woman’s face, wondering if she wanted him to. 

“Such a sweet girl,” he repeated, his lips at her ear. “You know you can ask your father for such things.”

He pressed her slightly forward with that, his fingers moving farther up. He had never explored her there before, in their nights together, his fingers now lingering near her smallclothes. She found herself wondering, for the very first time, just how in control he still was, if this is what he had planned to do when he saw her with the book, if this was smart. 

She wondered how much she cared. 

“Perhaps you care to show me your reaction to such things?” With those words his hands were between her legs, her breath was released, and her eyes were locked on his in the gray of the glass. 

Everything grew muddled in the arch she made against his back, in the slide he made underneath her silks. He pressed her hand against the illustration, against the woman’s face, and drank her in with the pads of his fingertips.


End file.
